Lovehammer: Djibriel
by Lovehammer Inc
Summary: Aaand here is the collection of serious things written by Djibriel.
1. The Beautiful Liar

{oOo}

"Beryl..."

That voice. Low and rich, beautiful and sensual. It felt as if it slid through her skin, slickly as a blade, to reverberate within her bones, a delicious ache she could not get enough of.

Eagerly, she turned from the open window, getting down to all fours and crawling to that beckoning hand, as gracefully as a feline. Just as she knew he liked it.

"Very good, Beryl." The voice purred, approbation, sending elation through her veins like some sort of drug.

She leaned into his touch, nuzzling into his opened palm, practically purring with wanton lust as he played with her a bit, then pouted childishly when he withdrew from the game, returning to petting her like a large cat as she lay, draped over his lap.

"I have an important job for you, Beryl." He told her, lips quirking up at the sides.

Her eyes lit up, and she sat up, by his feet, looking up at him. He was so tall, even now, sitting on his throne, he still loomed over her, his glory casting her into insignificance.

"What would you have of me, milord?"

She lounged, arched her back, offered; anything and everything. Her life, her flesh, her blood, her pain and pleasure, all his to use as he willed. And he was giving her an important job?

She basked in the light of his trust, eyes growing wider, more hazed with joy, when he continued speaking, "The most important job I could ever give anyone, my dear."

The endearment was unneeded, and he knew it, but deigned to offer it to her anyway, and she loved him all the more for it.

"Anything, milord." she said fervently.

The Daemon Prince that wore Fulgrim's shape smiled at such devotion, and a wave of his hand directed a pair of servants to bring forward a painting.

Of the man whose shape he wore, face filled with horror and despair.

"This painting is very important to me, my dear." He told her, gauging her willingness as she listened attentively to his every word. "Tell me, have you ever heard of a Kaschei?"

Beryl's brow furrowed. "No, milord." Was it important? Oh, had she failed to serve him properly? She feared disappointing him more than the loss of her own life.

"It's an old story that one of those slaves from the colonies brought back with him." The daemon prince grinned. The slave had sobbed and screamed so deliciously at the end.

"It concerns a sorcerer, who sealed his soul in an object, and hid it, to keep it safe. This, my dear, is my Kaschei. It holds my soul."

He had her attention, and her fear for his safety now. And of all his servants, he knew she would do anything for his favor.

"And you, dear, loyal Beryl..." His smile was pleased, indulgent, laviscious. "You will guard it for me. Forever. Because I trust you."

The last phrase was utterly unnecessary and they both knew it; her glee was written all over her beautiful features.

"Thank you, milord," she promised him, with complete fervor. "I will never fail you."

Not while you yet live, the Prince thought, gloatingly. He contemplated her, his first, most loyal servant and smiled. Rarely was such devotion found, and he had all of it; reason enough to gloat.

Within his portrait, Fulgrim's soul stood, stunned as he was carried off, with infinite care, by the daemonette.

"Don't worry, milord," she promised him. "I'll never let you down. I'll never leave your side."

{oOo}

The centuries passed, and she regretted nothing, in this cold hulk of a ship with its (limited by Slaaneshi standards) luxuries. She had her Lord's soul by her side, to love and to cherish and it was enough.

{oOo}


	2. What Fools These Mortals Be I

{oOo}

She had a thousand pictures of him, key chains, posters, pics, vids. The sound of his voice caught on disc from various broadcasts played often in her rooms, sound kept low, to make sure no one else could hear.

He was tall, imposing, and divinely gorgeous as befit the son of a living god. His pale hair shone silver in the light, and his eyes were the dark of a night lit by stars. She could never get enough of him, a secret obsession.

And now he was coming here, to her home planet! She had to get ready; as a former noble's daughter with parents in high places in the new Administratum, she was invited to a ceremonial parade and party held in his honor.

She washed her long, dark hair with a spicy-sweet scent, used rinses to bring out its color even more, and then rummaged through her closet frantically to find the perfect gown for the occasion. Red, blue, green... Nothing seemed to fit.

After practically tearing her closet apart, she finally found what she was looking for. Regal and purple to match her own eyes, with a long skirt and a daring décolletage.

Purple was his color. She hoped he would like it.

{oOo}

The party was wonderful, but she couldn't find him. She could see a number of Custodes surrounding someone, though. That person must be important. Maybe she should go and peek?

She walked on through the crowd, posture proud and elegant, but with her cheeks flushed, and she knew it was unbecoming. Still she was unused to this. The dress was a bit lower than what she normally wore, and she didn't like to think of what her friends or her father might say.

She knew he disapproved of her taste in clothes sometimes, but then, he was older, more conservative, and was still used to the days when the women wore those long, diaphanous veils over their faces and ornate high-collared dresses that covered the entire body. The new fashions that had come with interstellar trade were a perpetual frustration for him. Poor father. Ah, well. Surely he'd forgive her everything when she was married. And to such a handsome man too, nothing like those effiminate nobles who had come a-courting.

Carefully she tried to walk close enough to peek in between the Custodes, to see what or rather, who was giving off, that lovely silvery glow.

... It wasn't the Primarch. It was his sister.

{oOo}


	3. What Fools These Mortals Be II

{oOo}

Princess Serenity was as kind as she was beautiful, Beryl thought, dazed, but helplessly flattered by the way the princess engaged her in conversation as if she didn't outrank her a thousandfold. Gracious, lovely, gentle and friendly. Small wonder more than half the male populace was dazzled by her.

{oOo}

A glint of silver caught Beryl's eye, and she hastily, and courteously made her excuses, hoping to catch a glimpse of the silhouette. She knew the princess wouldn't miss her, since Captain Endymion had made his way over to make her acquaintance.

Fortunately, this time, Beryl's keen sight hadn't betrayed her. Silver hair, dark eyes, pale skin glowing slightly from within with health, like alabaster, the Primarch Fulgrim stood tall over the nobles around him who were engaging him in conversation.

Beryl took in the sight of him hungrily, like a man dying of thirst in a desert would have looked at an oasis, and began to make her way over to his position. This was more difficult than it looked, given the number of people between them, including the Custodes and his friend, Kharn.

It was made even more difficult to go to meet him, while she was wearing this dress. Granted, it was lovely and she'd had her share of speculative and even hungry looks directed to her while she was in it... but it also had a long hem. While this made it easy for her to look more regal, it also limited her mobility.

Driven by frustration, by the worry she would not be able to meet him face to face, Beryl gave in to the childish, petty urge to raise her skirts' hem just a little bit, and kick the shin of a particular obstinate man standing in her way.

The man was tall, and strong, wide-shouldered, clearly an Astartes.

And he had a very foul mouth. As she soon found out, when he turned his head so fast it would have given a lesser man whiplash and then lambasted her with a sequence of words so vicious that the young noblewoman could only gape in shock, her face turning redder and redder as he drew to a close.

Everyone was looking at them, and she'd never been so humiliated in her life! It was all she could do not to burst into tears and grab her skirts to leave. But no, Beryl was made of harder stone than that and she glared right back at him in fury.

"I asked you twice to let me pass and you didn't!" she snapped back, furious, aware that she looked bad in public, but not willing to give up the chance to meet him.

{oOo}

AN: And want to know Beryl had the misfortune of kicking?

Angron. Poor Beryl.


	4. What Fools These Mortals Be III

{oOo}

Beryl had fought valiantly, but she was badly outmaneuvered when she found out she was facing a Primarch. And in the face of her sudden shock, she didn't manage to catch up and soon lost the war of words.

Infuriated, eyes shimmering with tears of fury she refused to shed, the young woman grabbed her skirts and turned to stalk off in another direction, only to realize she'd lost sight of Fulgrim.

Frantic, she turned around to look for him, only to be caught unaware for a moment of vertigo as she tripped over the hem of her own gown.

The moment of falling distorted her perception of time and the only thing she could think was 'Oh, Frak-'.

She'd expected to land on her behind, all dignity lost, but instead His Divine Majesty decided to have some pity on her today, and her short loss of balance was remedied by a strong arm that caught her and gentle hands, far larger than her own, that helped set her back on her feet.

It was an indifferent kindness, but she didn't notice how distanced it was, at the time, because she was looking up into the face of her idol.

Fulgrim. He was so gorgeous. He was, as usual, dressed impeccably. In purple, with gold designs. And so tall in real life. Like a prince from a fairy tale, only more imposing.

"Are you alright?" she heard him say, and his voice was rich and melodious in real life, without the slight distortion of the speakers. It turned her higher functions to mush, just listening to him.

Her voice gave up on her first, as she turned redder than she'd ever been in her life, but after a few false starts, she managed to croak out a "Yes, milord. Thank you."

...And if her legs gave up the ghost from under her, and let her fall anyway, she'd never live this down. So she managed to stay on her feet, though her legs felt like noodles, and she managed a curtsey after a few moments of rapt contemplation.

...She'd never felt this shy, this unworthy, this uncomfortable around anyone in her life.

But he was in front of her, and it was good.

{oOo}


	5. What Fools These Mortals Be IV

{oOo}

He asked her name and for a horrifying moment, she couldn't remember it, before her mind rebooted itself and she said somewhat shyly that her name was Beryl and she was glad to meet him.

She was just glad he didn't make fun of her pauses and considerately acted as if her failures of conversation never happened, despite the way she was practically hypnotized by his presence. He simply moved on to the next topic, as if she hadn't acted like a dumbstruck little fool.

...He complimented her dress. Beryl couldn't help but flush happily at that wonderful moment, her mind storing it gleefully and greedily away for posterity, even as she stammered a thank you, in response to his quiet comment.

"Now, I wonder where the refreshments are?" she heard him murmur, and perhaps a little too- eagerly, she directed him to the buffet table.

She felt an exquisite sense of pride and joy fill her when he complimented some of the canapes she had helped prepare, and then took silent, mental notes on his preferences.

After all, her dear mother had always told her, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. She would just have to learn what he liked, so that if she could try hard enough, she might be considered an adequate choice for a bride. She knew that there was cutthroat competition for his favors, after all. Many noble-born maidens of her own world, and others as well found the silver haired Primarch to be a prize worth fighting for.

While he'd seemingly found her conversation, stilted as it was, to be pleasing enough to exchange a few comments with her, it was still a severe blow to her ego when the entrance of the Primarch Ferrus Manus caught his attention and he turned to greet his brother with a smile that made those he'd directed to her look pale and wan in comparison.

Nothing perfunctory about that. She felt small and insignificant as she watched him forget all about her presence in favor of his brother. Granted, he was still polite, but now that she could see the way he responded to Ferrus, she could easily tell the difference. It was devastating.

She made her excuses and left in turmoil. Those articles, those books.. Surely they could not be right? Lord Fulgrim could not possibly prefer his brother's ... affections... to those of a lovely female like herself?

{oOo}


	6. Heart Breaker

{oOo}

Beryl stared at him, frozen, gaping in shock at him for an instant that seemed like an eternity as her mind struggled to process what had just happened.

It wasn't that Fulgrim had yelled at her that was the problem.

Yelling was fine.

It was his choice of words.

She had never known that words could hurt like this. She'd never even imagined that Fulgrim could be so vicious.

A part of her quailed inside, trying to find some sort of explanation for it, but she couldn't think of any. She hadn't yelled at him, she'd tried not to talk of anything unpleasant, what else could she possibly have done?

Her hands began to tremble in an oddly human way as they wrung at her skirt.

"I'm sorry, milord..." she began, to try to defuse his fury, but Fulgrim clearly wasn't taking the apology. He was angry. He was angry at everything, really, but particularly, he was angry at his jailor.

Under normal circumstances, perhaps, had it been anyone else, Beryl could have taken the vitriol and slung some back.

But nothing was normal, and this was Fulgrim. Fulgrim who'd always been polite to her when she was human. Fulgrim who was the epitome of a gentleman. Fulgrim whose opinion she cared very much about, and he was calling her names so foul they made her sick.

For the first time since she'd become a daemonette, Beryl wanted to cry. Very badly.

"I'm sorry you feel that way..." she tried again, but there was nothing concilliatory in his look, or in his voice and his mental state was so full of animosity it dug into her senses.

"I didn't mean to upset you..." That didn't help either.

She didn't know what else to do. She was hungry, had been so for weeks, since she fed rarely, spending almost all her time with him, and now she hurt, and he hated her and..

He hated her. There was nothing she could say to that, and he hadn't stopped with those words, that had now shifted to cutting sarcasm, and...

Nothing in the Slaaneshi teachings was helpful in this circumstance either.

He hated her. He didn't want her here. He was angry at her, and she didn't know how to fix it.

For the first time since Beryl had become what she was now, she burst into tears.

(Just like a human, stupid weak daemonette, no wonder he doesn't like you!)

And then she fled.

She needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else but here. She knew that she couldn't abandon her post, of course, but... she needed some time. Some time to recover.

{oOo}

AN: Set after 'The Beautiful Liar'


	7. Why Do I Feel This Party Is Over?

{oOo}

Traditionally, among humans, there was a wide range of ways to cope with both stress and emotional pain. Particularly the emotional pain of a woman who's just been dumped. Which emotion was the closest analogue to Beryl's current mental state.

One of these ways would be binge-eating, performed in private, with a large amount of comfort food, and preferably a movie. Had Beryl still been human, she might have locked herself up in a separate room, with a tub of ice cream, a large tub of popcorn and a movie that she could scream things at.

That was no longer precisely available to her at this time.

For one thing, shopkeepers who carried her favorite confections would now scream in terror, and flee from her on sight, and that would only worsen her mood.

The second option, regularly practiced by miserable men who've been kicked to the curb, involved getting drunk off their asses.

This too, was now somewhat beyond her, since as a daemonette, her resistance to alcohol was now permanent, and while she could still enjoy the taste; the long-term intoxication no longer applied.

This too, vetoed the third option, which was to get drugged up to the eyeballs.

A fourth option would be to find a friend and weep all over their shirts, badmouthing the ex with great fervor.

This did not apply, since she had NO friends, Fulgrim wasn't an ex, she'd be going right back to him, and he had no emotional attachment to her whatsoever, so blackmail would also not work in any way or form.

The fifth option was to bury herself in work which would not work, since Fulgrim WAS her work. A job she'd really loved, and which was now biting her on the proverbial ass.

Happily, there was one last option left that would likely enable her to get the benefits of the first three options.

She could get laid on the metaphorical rebound. Sex did have an intoxicatory effect, would keep her too busy to think of Fulgrim, would feed her slightly as well, in an effect similar to binge eating, and could give her a sense of catharsis that might last long enough for her to put her mind, and the way she would deal with their long-term companionship for the next eternity in order.

Binge-sex it is, then.

Now, where was the nearest host of Dark Eldar?

{oOo}


	8. Why Do I Feel This Party Is Over, II

{oOo}

She'd fed and fucked until she was satiated. It was time.

She had to go back.

She couldn't go back like _this_, covered in things she knew he wouldn't approve of.

{oOo}

Beryl put her face in her hands, sitting underneath the waterfall. The cold water and the rigorous scrubbing she'd done was doing a marvelous job of helping her sober up from her binge, and she needed...

_Fulgrim._

No. No, she didn't need that. But she had to go back.

_Liar, liar, you lie to yourself, you were right that you needed him, but **you know he doesn't want you back**._

She missed him.

_But does he miss you?_

He needed her.

_No, he doesn't. You saw how he reacted to you. He **hates** you._

...So he did. The thought was bitter, like bile, and she tried not to look it straight in the eye, but it was like a blasted Mastodon in the middle of a room, no way to move around it, no way to avoid seeing it, even in the corner of her eyes.

_He was probably happy she was gone_.

{oOo}

Hatred was better than apathy.

She would take what crumbs he could spare.

The thought curdled in her gut, as she stood, and went for new clothes. If he didn't want to see her, then nothing she wore would faze him or please him.

and if nothing... if nothing would ever please him, then she would try anyway, and keep trying.

She entered the room quietly. The defenses were still up, the place was safe as it had ever been. and his portrait was still where she'd left it.

Her eyes burned. She didn't have the heart to say a word.

{oOo}


	9. Gilt Cages

{oOo}

Beryl frowned, brows furrowed in concentration and lower lip caught between her teeth as she tweaked the strands of illusion into place.

She wanted everything to be just perfect. Today was, at least on her half, it was a very important day. Today, she and Fulgrim's soul had been together for several centuries.

It had been a very rocky time for her. She still wasn't used to the open animosity he showed her sometimes.

There was only one thing she had on her that had been kept hidden from the point of her change.

It was a crystal shaped like a diamond, and a deep purplish red in color. She'd woken up with it from the very first, and always felt uncomfortable with anyone else seeing it. So she kept it inside her all the time, because it felt like a part of herself.

She pulled the illusion up and around herself, and around the soul in the portrait. Reality distorted itself in a very disturbing manner for a few instants...

It was very draining, but she had hoarded up energy anyway, and, well; he was clearly unhappy with the lack of mobility he had in the portrait. If this worked, and if he liked it, maybe they could do this more often?

She shushed the foolish part of her that said it was just like a date, wasn't it, with that table set with food and wine over there?

It wasn't a date. Even if a foolish childish part of her wanted it to be.

{oOo}

And then they were on a beach, feeling the wind and the sea-spray on their skin, the scent of it n the air just right and Fulgrim was in the false-body illusion she'd taken to maintaining, except this one could move around the illusion freely.

"How do you like it?" she asked him, hopefully.

"Real," even in the illusion his voice cracked. His body squirmed and he swiveled his head around looking, blinking. "You're real. You're real," he growled out the last word and shoved her away.

Immediately he itched, his body begging him for more sensation, something, anything. Reminding him of the hallucinations, of the sounds and stillness and madness.

If she left, if he drove her away again...

"I'm sorry," his voice snapped and cracked, instantly contrite and afraid. "I'msorry, sorry."

Oh, Oh he could hear his voice! He hated that he needed her, but if...he couldn't if? His thoughts were out of order, confused. "Hate you, sorry. Sorry? I ah," think, force order onto his mind, remember how to convince a woman that she was apreciated. Don't close his eyes, he needed, wanted to see something else besides that room. "I, I apologize for my behavior?"

He was begging a daemonette. He felt like he was going to throw up. But even that sensation he relished.

{oOo}

Beryl swayed slightly before she got her balance back, shoving the slight disappointment down.

Well, at least he had recovered?

"I'm sorry, I'msorry, sorry."

He sounded so afraid. Of what? Surely no one had hurt him? She could see no scars on the portrait, had someone tormented him in another fashion?

If anyone had, she would kill them. Slowly, painfully. And bring him their skulls to make a throne with.

The surge of protectiveness that filled her surprised even her.

"Hate you, sorry. Sorry?

That hurt badly, but he looked uncomfortable, sickly. Maybe he was delirious? That couldn't possibly be good for him.

In response, she strengthened the illusion, added the texture of soft silk clothing, changed the surroundings to be a comfortable living room she vaguely remembered from her human past, put up a bottle of wine, with crystal glasses set up, and infused it with the remembered taste of decades-old red wine.

"I ah, I, I apologize for my behavior?" he managed, eyes desperate.

Had she been another daemonette, she probably would have taken advantage of his need for contact. Would have tugged him to her, drunk deep of him even in illusion. Would have used sense memory as a tool against him to get what she wanted one way, or the other.

But Beryl's human half kept pointing out how ragged he looked, even in illusion, eyes wild and frightened and desperate and that enabled her to reluctantly keep her distance, hands up in a position of surrender.

"Milord," she said, carefully gauging his need to flee, "Sit down, relax. You will likely feel better after you have a drink."

After a few moments, she added, "I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I provoked you, and… I forgive you."

{oOo}


	10. On the Run

{oOo}

She fled through the warp, cursing viciously, the souls of a pair of Psykers clutched in her hands.

They were hunting for her _again._

Accursed _Tzeentchians._

And if that wasn't bad enough, Fabius Bile had posted a reward on her head.

Apparently her ability to possess and teleport without an intricate, complete ritual was something new and unprecedented and they all wanted a piece of the pot.

Well, fuck them. Sideways. With a pitchfork. _And no lube._

She wasn't telling them anything. She wasn't helping _them._

_She'd been promised Fulgrim, and instead, she'd been cheated. _

Now Fulgrim _hated her._ Hated her, and nothing she'd done those many centuries had eased his rage, no matter how hard she tried...

She'd just wanted him to be happy. With her.

...and _she should have taken him,_ her daemon side said, _and he would have loved her if she had_, it said and _you know that you should have left him alone until he broke and fucked him senseless, pampered him in turns until he needed you to __**live**_ and it was so damn difficult, and...

And he was hurting himself now. Because she hadn't known what had really happened. Because she'd _believed._

Stupid promises. Stupid possessor-prince. Stupid Tzeentchians.

Her chest hurt, it ached and felt hollow and all she could do was to hunt, and store energy, just in case he would need her.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. _She missed him so much._

The others could go fuck themselves. She wasn't going to fail him again.

This time, she'd be ready.

_And if they hurt him again, she'd kill them_.

{oOo}


	11. Frontlines

{oOo}

_Everybody, with your fists raised high_

_Let me hear your battle cry tonight_

_Stand beside, or step aside_

_We're on the frontline_

{oOo}

The sky was full of smoke, tinted red-grey-orange by the flames of exploding transports, the air itself smelled of smoke, blood, and the subversive scents of Slaaneshi pheromones.

Cultists and corrupted Marines alike were attacking, some in stolen warmachines powered by corrupted psykers, others on foot, giggling as they threw themselves into battle in their pastel colored abominations. And yet worse, there were the daemonhosts. One of which housed a monster, the same _former_ daemon-prince who'd enslaved, possessed Fulgrim all those years ago. Fortunately for the Imperial forces, he'd been demoted for failing to keep him.

The Warp was distorted here, the Materium and the Immaterum having temporarily been joined, fueled by perverse Slaaneshi rites.

Around the planet, a small Warp Storm roiled, distorting time and space, preventing reinforcements.

Fulgrim's forces were well and securely trapped. If they could hold out for the next three days, they would get reinforcements, but... could they hold out for that long?

They were damn well going to try.

{oOo}

Beryl wasn't built for strength. She may have become a daemonette and those were indeed powerful, compared to normal humans, but they were hardly the highest rankers in the hierarchy.

No, Beryl was outclassed in strength.

But Beryl didn't need strength, for _this._

What Beryl did have, was speed, skill in teleportation, and the kind of accuracy that could find a metaphorical needle in a haystack.

Accuracy honed by keeping an eye on a particular Primarch who was fighting on this accursed planet.

A Primarch, who, having learned of the boasts of the enemy leader, looked like he was about to have a mental breakdown in the worst way possible.

_Fuck No._

{oOo}

Beryl had known this would be coming, someday. She now turned her accuracy in teleportation to guerrilla tactics.

She had only two real advantages in this fight. The first being that she had a physical anchor, to this world. The second, that she didn't really give a damn if she was going to survive it, and thus was willing to spend her ichor like water to get it.

Beryl had only three tactics she could employ.

Subversive behavior was _impossible,_ she could never hope to infiltrate their forces. She couldn't brute force it, she wasn't built for that.

But she could damn well teleport primed explosives into important bits of the mechs that were heading here. Sending them careening from the explosions, into each other and into any other enemy infrastructure in their way.

And she could damn well teleport into the middle of the enemy forces, grab hold of their psykers, their lesser daemons, _and drink them down to dust._

Of course, the latter course had to depend on surprise, and speed, and Beryl wasn't a blasted Warp god. Statistically speaking, she couldn't avoid the attacks forever.

She didn't even _try_ to avoid them.

She simply made sure she was still mobile enough _to kill the fuckers in front of her._

{oOo}

The ichor was harsh and foul in her throat, ashes hurt her eyes, her skin, and turned her throat dry as dust one moment, and wet with salty-bitter fluid the next.

She fought to keep from gagging. No time to rest. No time to waste.

She was half-corpse already, walking wreckage, more than that, kept mobile and in one piece... relatively... only by the sheer amount that she drank down, most of which went to keeping her arms and legs intact. She needed those to reach out and _touch_ someone.

And if this touch turned them to screaming husks that disintegrated, what of it?

Keep it clean and simple. Teleport in, drain the bastards, and teleport out. If you can, toss explosives in their 'crafts. If you can't, distract them so they don't go after _him._

Great gouges of warp-flesh had been torn from her, Gore splattered her, ichor dripped from wounds that sealed closed barely moments before a new one was opened in her flesh and yet she fought onwards, creating openings for the Marines to strike whenever possible. It was gritty, disgusting work and she didn't give a damn.

{oOo}

Drinking down a lesser daemon was nothing like drinking down a psyker. It was harder. The creature fought back, and if held long enough, could and would, try to rip its way out of her corpse.

So she didn't try to hold it. First, drain the whole thing out of its shell, like shelling an angry crab with a really large metal hammer, next put it through a vicious grinder, tearing the power from the mind and casting the mind out, using the disoriented energy being for the equivalent of a thrown stone at a target.

{oOo}

Once upon a time, Beryl had been the holder of Great Metallia. Once upon a time, she had been a daemon-queen capable of obliterating a planet, with armies of youma to follow her every order.

Pity she didn't have that now. The fight would have been over much sooner, and she'd have been sitting on a throne of skulls, sipping ichor from a skull goblet.

Still, some skills did carry over.

An unfortunate corrupted Marine gurgled its last breath, impaled on a large spear of solid black crystal.

{oOo}


	12. Dramatic Tension

{oOo}

It was the third day and the daemonhosts had come out to play a day earlier, leaving human wreckage in their wake.

If there was one thing that Slaanesh's minions could be known for, it was their sense of drama. Their perpetual belief in their own invulnerability, their perpetual beauty and power, given to them with the oh-so cliche so-called 'divine' right to rule.

And with it came the incredibly stupid tendency to dramatic timing. Steal hope from the defenders to leave them in ashes at the last possible moment. That sort of thing.

So, they painted the fields with splatters of blood, burnt incense with the corpses to leave that sickly sweet smell, to paint the skies gloriously with the hues of sunset, and then proceeded to let the corpses pile up as they fought their battles. Both their own, and the Imperials.

Beryl was _counting_ on it. It was just the sort of overblown shit that he would have liked, the _cheat._

In visibly turning against the forces controlled by Slaanesh, she had become a thorn in Slaanesh's side. One that the Warp God would find it most amusing to crush. In the most visible way possible.

And while she had once obeyed him without question, she was now someone the former daemon-prince could no longer control.

So, of course the fucker would extend a formal challenge. It suited his sense of style.

And she knew she hadn't the strength to deal with him, or to fight him properly, one on one. He outweighed her, outmatched her, outranked her.

So it was a surprise to almost everyone concerned that she bothered to show up, skulls in hand.

Daemonhost skulls.[1]

Hey, if he wanted drama, _she'd give him the goddamn drama._

{oOo}

[1]tactic used: torpedo'd from behind with energy draining black crystal spears. As big as she could get. From a point of stealth.


	13. The Last Stand

{oOo}

"I'm surprised you bothered to show up." The former daemon prince says, his voice pitched to carry across the field, his gestures wide open and dramatic. "Having betrayed our people and all that."

She knew he would draw this out for as long as possible. She figures, why not?

"They're your people." She points out, with an equal sharpness to her voice, a bleak bitter sarcasm, letting it carry, as well as he does. "Not mine."

"Come now, we're all daemons here." he pointed out, in what she privately considers a parody of a reasonable voice. "All working for the same god."

"I beg to differ." Ah, that startled him. Having voiced it out loud meant her words would go to Chaos' ears.

"You broke your part of the deal first, remember?" she prods him, verbally, lashing out with a torrent of crystal shards. "That means I'm not required to follow through on mine."

He blocks many of them, or dodges, but some of them still hit and lodge in his skin, buried deep, giving her a way to drain him with them. And, unbeknownst to him, beginning to form the shape of something she will use against him, sinking deep into the ground, drinking up warp energy from the atmosphere of the planet...hastening the dissipation of the warp storm, bit by microscopic bit.

"How have I done such a thing?" The creature grins, amused, testing her defenses with a few jabs of its blade."And isn't it too late for you to complain about that? It's not as if Chaos gifts are returnable with a receipt."

She dodges them, returns a few strokes with her crystal spears, but already, she can tell that he outmatches her. That he just needs to land one true hit to kill her.

Except he's not going to do that, she can also see, because he's a drama-hog and he's spent the better part of three days fuming at her bravado in attacking his forces and surviving to frustrate him another day.

He's going to draw it out. She knows it.

Good.

There's one thing the fucker hasn't figured out quite yet.

And that's the fact she's not going down without taking him with her.

{oOo}

"The agreement was that Fulgrim would be mine. _All of him._ Not just the parts you saw fit to discard." The grin she gives him reminds one of a cornered animal, driven to the point of madness and desperation. The vicious edge coats her voice like poison on a blade.

They circle warily around each other, he bearing down on her like a quick mountain, trying to bury her in a single blow, and her, teleporting out of the way of his blade, and reappearing in to drain his energy and carve his flesh. It is like a dance.

He's only doing this to play to the crowd, she knows.

"And then you _broke_ him." The feral hiss of rage that fills her voice is like the boil of magma before the eruption. "I wanted him _whole._"

"Hm?" The former daemon prince smiles lazily. "I should think you had a hand in it yourself, my dear. After all, did you not accept the terms of watching over his soul?"

"_To protect him._" She grinds out, dodging another blow.

"Well, I'm sorry, my dear, but you've clearly failed." The monster grinned. "But don't worry, when I have his body back, I'm sure we'll have a _fine_ time, him, you and I."

"Don't you _dare_ touch him!"

Then the battle starts in earnest. Beryl is physically outmatched, the blows the monster lands break warp-matter like fragile blood and bone, but she manages to get in a few good strikes which the bastard seems to revel in.

One particularly fine blow liquifies his kidneys.

He only giggles with glee, "Oh, you are more fun than I expected! I'll have to reward you for that one."

{oOo}

Keeping up an outright attack against a juggernaut like this wouldn't do her much good, and she knew it. He may have been demoted from his previous position, but he was still a powerful bastard, and she was running on what she could drain from him and the warp beings she could reach.

Which was why she started teleporting in the other chaos-corrupted to use as living shields from blows that would have pulped her in a hit, draining the injured creatures to the dregs for power to teleport and regenerate, then struck out at him with the dark crystal weapons.

Energy blasts were _expensive_. These however... As they shatter, they would still serve her purpose in a way.

They would drink in ambient warp energy. He likely wouldn't even notice the drain until it built up to the point that the field was littered with them.

And by then it would be too late.

All she had to do was play for _time_.

{oOo}

At the rate of attrition that he was putting her weapons through, taking perverse glee in breaking them to pieces whenever she parried, it wasn't surprising that soon the area was littered with the shards.

Which played into her hands, in a way.

He looked puzzled by the drain, pulling the shards in his skin out and tossing them to the ground to lay by the dust and husks that used to be the corrupted she used as a shield.

Then he attacked. Taking her seriously now, hm?

He tore through her defenses, pounded on her like a hammer upon an anvil. She did her best to give as good as she got, but he eventually, painfully, had her coughing up ichor, a gory mess on the torn loam by his feet. She was dying and she knew it.

Believing himself to have the upper hand, he grinned, lazily as a feline. "Any last words, my dear?" he purred.

"Yes." She said. And then triggered the shards to grow as fast as they could.

"_Go fuck yourself._"

Thousands of shards meant thousands of spears.

Growing out of the ground so fast they were a blur.

**Contact.**

They tore straight into the armor, going on deep into his flesh, catching him in a macabre cage of deep purple and onyx crystals that drank his blood and energy, that kept him unable to move, and screaming.

She crawled the last few inches to him, relying on the energy the crystals were draining from him, to make it.

Her voice, her words were clear, even across the field of battle. They would have no idea how much energy she was using, to make this so.

"I have killed thousands of psykers for him before, to fuel the illusions to keep him as sane as I could. I would kill millions for his sake, without a thought, to earn a moment of his approval. I would obliterate everything that I saw as a threat to him, or my claim on him._ And I would do it without regret._ You knew this _before_ you turned me. Why then, did you ask, if I give a damn about these daemons that I've killed? They were not _him_. They do not matter. They were _nothing_. And," Beryl added, coughing out ichor, her voice filled with dark amusement, her bloody lips in a poisonous smile as she stuck her hand into a large chink in his armor, buried it in his flesh. "Now, so are _you._"

His mouth still open, he was torn apart from within by the elegant tree-shape of crystal that she summoned within his flesh, that consumed the warp-matter of his daemonic soul with the rest of him.

Mission accomplished, Beryl gave the crystals the order to drink the fucking warp-energy out of every single chaos corrupted they could reach and let herself drift into a sleep that she would never wake from, her body disintegrating to ash even as the crystals obeyed her last orders.

{oOo}


	14. A Meeting Between

{oOo}

In this place between worlds, between life and death. a young woman sat, long black hair tumbling down around her, knees pulled up to her chest, arms folded on top of them and face hidden behind them.

Her shoulders shook, small trapped sounds like a kitten's mewls escaping.

The hand on her shoulder is a surprise, and the girl looks up at the face, that familiar, gentle face. Two lifetimes, she's met this woman.

And she flinches at first, at the sight of those compassionate eyes, before the pale lady brushes her long pigtails out of the way, and wraps her arms around her.

"There, there."

Beryl isn't sure what to do about it. She's hurt him badly and he will never forgive her. She's hurt this woman, pale-haired Serenity too. Even slew her in her first life. Why isn't she striking back at Beryl right now?

Beryl sits, frozen in indecision for a moment before exhaustion overwhelms her.

The arms around her are warm and strong and Beryl, all of her is tired.

She hurts.

She wants to sleep.

"…I'm sorry," she mumbles, giving in to the impulse, and the hug. "For everything."

For Endymion.

For Serenity.

For Fulgrim.

And then she cries herself to sleep.

Serenity, now Sailor Cosmos, looks down at the small, shattered gem in her palm. She's tried to repair it as best as she could, but it's too badly damaged. There will always be a piece missing.

Gently, she places the starseed into the Cauldron.

Hopefully, the third life will be better.

{oOo}


	15. The Gates of Sleep

{oOo}

_Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn;_

_Of polish'd ivory this, that of transparent horn:_

_True visions thro' transparent horn arise;_

_Thro' polish'd ivory pass deluding lies._

{oOo}

The dreams always start the same. He is there, bright and beautiful as starlight, as pale as alabaster, smiling, warm and solid. They are dancing, hand in hand, in a beautiful ballroom, silvery pale marble, intricate, like a room in the famous Taj. He towers over her, so much more vibrantly alive than anyone she's met yet in this world, and it is idyllic.

Then the skies turn dark. The ballroom turns to a glittering gold-ornamented theatre, all overdone opulence and garish color.

She sees his face, it is filled with horror, hatred, despair. They are caught, still in the moment, and it is in her hands, in her arms, that he shatters into a hundred thousand glittering shards.

And it is all her fault.

{oOo}

She wakes up screaming silently, reaching for him.

He is never there. The only thing left to her is the silence.

{oOo}

At first, when she was younger, she broke into noisy sobs that puzzled her parents. Over the years, she learned not to weep aloud, not to scream when she woke from the horror that never truly leaves.

It is her guilt and her shame, and it is a burden well deserved, though she doesn't know quite when, where, or how she failed him.

{oOo}


	16. Reincarnation Blues

{oOo}

_Someone told me love would all save us_

_But, how can that be, look what love gave us_

_A world full of killing and blood spilling_

_That world never came_

{oOo}

Chrys remembered little from her past, but everything she did told her that the state of this world, bloody, vicious, polluted; was partly her fault.

Because she was an idiot.

There was no other way to say it. The ancient, insane past self she knew the most of, had been a murderer of more people than she could reasonably count, had been a vicious, foolish bitch, and had destroyed so many lives... in the process of chasing someone who would never love her.

Daemon-Queen Beryl had sold her soul and services to Metallia for what she thought was love.

And it hadn't even really _been_ love. It had been infatuation, obsession, _but not love._

What a fucking _pathetic_ existence that had been.

And if that wasn't bad enough, all of her faint, shattered memories of her most recent past life clearly indicated that she'd _repeated_ the whole goddamn sorry fiasco with someone she_ did_ love… and _had ruined his life_. Some way. Some how. She didn't know how she'd earned his hate, but she didn't think he'd hate her for nothing.

She must have fucked up again on a capital basis just like her first life.

Or at least that was what she could understand from her dreams.

At least she still retained the memory of how he looked like. Someday, she hoped, she would see him again. Maybe then she could beg him for forgiveness.

There was an English saying. "Once is chance, twice is stupidity, three times is enemy action"

Apparently the fuckers who recruited her the past two times were going for a goddamn number 3, if the polite card she'd been slipped was any indication.

"Come now." the pale-haired man practically oozed charm. "I can give you everything you have ever wanted. Wealth, we have at hand. The money in the briefcase is only a sample of what you can look forward to, when She rules this world.

That man.. the one in your dreams.. I can bring him to you. I can make him love you, you know I can*. All you have to do is go to this room, and break open the mirror that holds She who Dreams. Simple, is it not?"

"You mean you can brainwash him." She smiled at him poisonously. "Allow me to express my displeasure with your proposal." she finished, as she emptied a few rounds of lead into the surprised cultist.

Lucio Malfay had no chance to dodge before his body was ripped apart by the projectiles.

As a parting shot as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood, she smirked viciously. "And by the way? She'd never have made you into a god, anyway."

{oOo}


	17. Not a Hero

{oOo}

_Now that the world isn't ending_

_It's love that I'm sending to you_

_It isn't the love of a hero_

_And that's why I fear it won't do_

{oOo}

Chrys felt her lower body erupt into a firestorm of agony as she pushed the little boy out the door, even as the falling rubble crushed her legs.

Safe. The last child was safe.

But she couldn't move. And she was still inside a burning building that was falling apart.

_She was so screwed._

She choked the harsh edge of smoke, on ash, her eyes watering, her lungs protesting vividly, trying to make her cough out blood and bile.

If dying from blood loss didn't get her, she knew at a glance that there was nothing she could do to have the legs fixed, and that she'd probably die from gangrene anyway. Or shock. That was, if the fires, the smoke inhalation and the carbon monoxide did not kick in.

All around her was flames, and ash, rubble and shrapnel.

But at least there weren't any children's corpses.

She stopped fighting, leaning herself up against the nearby wall.

The sound of voices came, just a few moments too late, and dark humor flickered bitterly in her mind, "Well, at least the cavalry finally came."

"She's still alive! _I don't care if the goddamn roof's on fire!"_

Too late for her, she knew. Too late for Zei, who lay in a puddle of his own blood a few blocks back or Keighvin, who'd gone down fighting some of the monsters before that, trying to buy civilians some time to escape a death-trap.

She knew reincarnation existed. She'd gone through it before, after all.

She just hoped the next time around, she wouldn't fuck up so badly, but that was near- impossible without some sort of way to keep memories for her to learn from….

Damn. _And she still hadn't found him._ What was she supposed to do now?

Her parents were probably dead by now, she noted distracted by the way her blood glinted on the tiles. Heh. Bloodloss, and blinding pain had probably driven her batshit.

The glint was more visible now, moving towards her.

Amara, she registered, fuzzily. Amara, and Amphitrite. And Mamoru looked so badly on edge as he leaned over her to try to pick her up that she must really be a wreck, since she had the feeling he didn't even _like_ her, but right now he looked like someone had shot his dog.

Heh.

Well, it was nice to know she'd be missed.

"…Hey, guys… Can you do me a favor? Can you take someone a message for me?

I first wanted to know you because you felt familiar. In all this world, I have only ever known a few people who feel like home. You guys… and those two geeks… But there is someone else, though he's missing. I know he should be here. I see him in my dreams at night, I miss him in the day."

She could feel her vision graying out again, but wasn't willing to black out quite yet before she was through. Death could wait a few goddamn minutes before it took her.

"I waited for him, but he never came, I searched for him, but never found him. If you ever find him, please tell him, I'm sorry. For everything. And that I really do love him."

And then she let go, and nothing mattered anymore.

{oOo}


	18. Fourth Times the Charm?

{oOo}

The Tzeentchian looked himself in the mirror, clinically checking the finer details of his human shell.

Attractive, check.

Simple clothing that could pass for a well off commoner's.. check.

List of people to check for ancestry in case of Creed... Check.

Chloroform, check...

And lastly, large container full of sweets, check.

He then put on his hat, tugged on his coat, and went to find this 'Beryl.'

She was one of a handful of candidates who was assumed to have Creed ancestry. His master, great Tzeentch would reward him greatly if he confirmed the identity of the brats, and successfully corrupted or slew them.

He grinned, like a shark. How hard could it possibly be, to corrupt a child?

It was like taking candy from a baby...

{oOo}

Little Beryl, only three, and very much the treasured princess to her parents, didn't know whether she wanted to laugh or cry.

She'd taken the chance for reincarnation with full memories attached, because she'd learned her lesson and wanted to keep the memory, so she wouldn't fuck up again. She'd quickly made a name for herself as an intelligent, dainty little girl, and though she hated the pink dresses her mother kept pushing on her, it seemed to be going well.

Or at least it had gone well, until this.

Because right now, in the middle of a crowded city square, she was being propositioned by a daemon in human flesh. As in, literally. As in, case of possession.

Seriously, did she have a mark on her saying 'Chaos Bait here, corrupt now!'

Because she wasn't even in puberty yet, and already the daemons were chasing her tail!

More to the point, how low could Chaos possibly stoop, to now offer candy to children?

She wasn't sure if she was more offended they thought she'd actually fall for it, or that they'd not even recognized her.

She caught sight of a flash of shiny armor in the corner of her eye. Astartes on patrol? May as well bring this farce to an end right here.

{oOo}

The Tzeentchian smiled to himself, as he pulled out the candy and the brochure, talking in the warm, gentle tone of voice one generally heard from those nice doctors who gave candy out after injections.

"...And if you join Chaos, and worship Master Tzeentch, you'll never need to go to school again! You'll have all the information and candy in the world in your hands. Won't that be great?"

The child gave him a surprisingly deeply penetrating look, before saying, loudly, at the top of her lungs, "But my parents told me not to take candy from strangers!"

...Within the next moment, every adult within hearing range now had turned to look at him.

Oh, _shit._

{oOo}

Beryl took the time to savor her well-armed trap, and then, as the daemon frantically made shushing motions, she continued, as loudly and childishly as possible, "Why do you want me to get in your aircar, mister?"

...Alright, every adult in the place was headed this way, now, full speed. She just had to keep him distracted...

{oOo}

The Tzeentchian could feel his schemes turn to shattered shards at that moment, and reached down to grab the child... who then screamed out at the top of her lungs, **"HELP! THAT DOESN'T GO THERE!"** while struggling. Frantically.

{oOo}

Some time later, his shell was splattered all over the sidewalk by the hands of enraged Astartes, and he was running for his metaphysical life. How had the girl known he was a daemon on sight? It must be... His master was right... Creed had spawned!

{oOo}


	19. Indignation

{oOo}

Later, searching the remnants of the corpse, the space marines came up with the list.

It had children's names on it. As they searched the coat and pants' pockets, they discovered more candy that they resolved to have tested, for drugs, and chloroform.

"Looks like she was right, brother-captain. It was a pedophile." said Brother Gaius Marius, a frowning World-Eater Space Marine.

The little girl in question, a small, adorable red-haired bit of fluff, couldn't possibly be any older than four. She clung quietly to the leg of one of his brother-marines, hiding her face, and peeking out at them, eyes haunted and afraid.

The World-Eater Marine felt the urge to pulp the bastard again, except he couldn't because there was nothing left to pulp.

Children just should not have that look on their faces.

It felt like small comfort that they'd caught the monster before he could have taken any other children.

{oOo}

"...Why does he have a brochure with colorful pictures extolling the benefits of Chaos?"

Brother Marius turned in shock. "He WHAT?"

His brother-marine offered him the colorful brochure, fit to catch the eye of a child, written all over with the mind-burning, corrupting script of Chaos.

Sickened, Brother Marius turned pale. "A Slaaneshi pedophile! We must take word of this to a Primarch. Now. Children's lives depend on it!"

{oOo}

Beryl looked up at the gigantic Space Marine who towered over her tiny child-form, and felt the seeds of panic come into full bloom.

"Little girl, I'm sorry to have to ask you this, but will you come in with us for questioning? Our Medicae will also need to take a look at you, to make sure the bad man didn't hurt you." His voice was a deep rumble even when he was trying to whisper, and she wrung her hands in real panic... though what he probably assumed was causing it was definitely not the case.

"But I have to go home to my mommy!" Beryl said frantically, searching for more reasons to leave. Leave and not come back until she was sure no one could ever recognize her, even in this form.

{oOo}

The little girl had gone pale and was wringing her hands in fear. The Marine felt protectiveness surge over him at the sight. The child was clearly traumatized, and needed comforting.

Those damn Slaaneshi perverts!

Curse them! Curse them to the Warp!

He rummaged through his bag, and came up with something that was a standard gift for frightened children, used to calm them down in cases like this.

"Oh scared little child, HAVE AN ANGRON DOLL. FEAR NOT. OUR MIGHTY PRIMARCH WILL CRUSH THE BAD MEN."

{oOo}

Little Beryl looked up at the Marine, and, eyes wide, carefully took the doll, and hugged it tightly shaking slightly in relief.

These people had never seen her before. She might get out of this yet, they thought she was a normal child.

"Thank you, mister." she said fervently, then hid her face behind the doll's plush-soft head. "But I really should go home. My mommy's probably worried."

{oOo}

In the Warp Realm of Tzeentch, the sneakiest of the Chaos Gods was enraged.

Enraged enough to use a voice so loud that Khorne would be proud.

"HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?" he snarled at the cowering daemon.

The daemon cowered in terror of its imminent demise and hastened to placate its dread liege. "Yes, Master. But. It was not my fault. It was that child!"

Tzeentch was still in horror, shedding feathers from the stress. "And you LEFT the list? How could you lose the list to a child?"

The daemon saw its demise move ever closer and practically babbled in terror. "It was spawned by CREED. I know it was! It had such a knowing look, as if it knew what I was doing… and was setting me up to fail!"

The screams of "DAMN YOU CREEEEED!" once again echoed throughout the Warp.

{oOo}


	20. Little Robin Red Breast

{oOo}

The Astartes had said they'd bring her to a Primarch to stand as a witness in this case, and it had left her on edge from that moment on, afraid she would be found out early and slain. Fortunately, to them, it made the disguise of 'traumatized, molested little girl' more believable instead.

When they'd said Primarch, she'd always thought they'd bring her to Angron. Or Curze, who was taking great care to root out heretics and cultists now.

Instead, they brought her to the one person she'd missed the most.

Little Beryl had never expected to be brought to Fulgrim. Not now. Not when she was a child, too tiny and fragile. A part of her wondered if he would strike her down where she stood, but he didn't.

He didn't seem to recognize her.

He clearly assumed that she'd been traumatized by the 'Slaaneshi' pedophile earlier, and from the frown he held back, the signs of stress in his face, the worry in his eyes, she could tell it was real.

The marks of Slaanesh's torment were still on him, even if it was much reduced nowadays and it fed her rage, her hurt, and her guilt, but she said nothing.

Though he seemed to take the sad look in her eyes as caused by something else, and gently told her to sit down, pouring warm milk into a cup for her. The cup was lavender, and had a smiling feline on it.

Then he gently engaged her in conversation and avoided mention of the nasty man, except when he had to ask her pertinent questions.

She'd been without him, so many lonely lonely days and nights without the sound of his voice or the touch of his hand, and now, he was petting her gently on the head, and treating her kindly, as if she was a delicate, fragile flower who needed looking after.

She couldn't help it. The words slipped out. "If I declared I want to marry you when I grow up, will you be mad?"

Oh shit. She blushes, hides her face in the Angron doll's soft plushie back, and only looks up at the sound of his warm laugher as he gently pets her head. "I'm too old for you." he says, eyes warm and crinkling up at the corners with his smile. "I'm sure you'll find someone just for you, little one."

And she falls in love with him all over again. Holding her starseed in him, he is safety, is comfort, is 'well beloved'.

"You'll never be too old for me." She says, firmly, fervently. "You're just perfect."

She'll wait. She'll try hard. Maybe if she makes something of herself this time around he will love her back.

{oOo}


	21. The Last Stand: Imperial Side

{oOo}

Combat is second nature to him. As a primarch he has been born to fight and despite all that has happened, he is most at home on a battlefield. Now that he is finally back, that he is finally sane enough to lead, he feels alive and whole again. That does not mean, he isn't feeling stressed, but his mind is working like it should be, weighing possibilities, providing strategies, instead of remembering how it was not to have a body or beg a daemonette not to leave.

He moves quickly, dancing a lethal dance none can match. His moves are lightning quick, his sword is a blur. At his side, his Marines fight. Ancient Tarvitz, encased in a Dreadnaught's body, ignites his flamer. At close quarters, the move is deadly and fire spreads like a deadly river.

Their enemies press on, eager to welcome the pain. They fight like madmen that they are; blind little toys that threw away all that made them human in the pursuit of fleeting joy. Life is wasted on them. All they deserve is scorn and hate.

Then everything falls apart.

The daemon, that one, the snake-like monstrosity that had once resided in his body raises uncoils behind the lines, but well within his sight. Its movements are sinuous and inhumanly graceful; its smile is a picture of smugness even when its minions die around it in droves. Merely looking at it makes Fulgrim feel like he's unclean and broken, not worth of leading.

He barely notices a young woman in nothing but a leather harness strike him with a sword. Only instinct saves him or maybe not? He's durable and her sword probably wouldn't do much harm. In the end it's inconsequential.

The daemon is here and Fulgrim will have to face it. There is nobody else who has the smallest chance of defeating it .

Tarvitz steps before him, forcing him to withdraw. He isn't sure if its chance or if the old warrior noticed his sudden weakness. It does not matter. He will have to fight again soon. His fears are all there, made manifest in one serpentine body and he has to defeat them. If he doesn't he will fail his Legion, his brothers, his sister and his Father again.

Then he notices a flash of red. His eyes follow it and his gaze falls upon a familiar sight. The daemonette. He freezes, his mind trying to explain what he sees. Why is that thing heading towards the daemon? Does she wish to join it?

He is not grateful for her presence and he will never let himself be again, but moving is easier again. With just the daemon before him, he could only fear his fate. With her in the picture, he can hate them both and take back his place alongside his men.

They fight. The tide of cultists and minor abominations seems to falter when the two daemons face each other. From the distance, the daemonette is not that easy to see, but Fulgrim thinks she appears to be in a bad shape. The thought brings him some satisfaction.

They move slowly towards the pair of daemons and now Fulgrim decides there is something puzzling about the whole situation. The daemonette appears to be hostile and though he does not pretend to know the habits of those foul creatures nor does he wish to, there is something off. He hears scraps of the conversation, but most of it drowns in the barking of bolters and the cries of the combatants.

"—surprised you bothered—"

He hates that voice. The words don't matter, he won't listen to them, they are always lies.

Suddenly, the daemonette attacks. For a moment, he is startled, but not too long. Is she not a daemon? A thing of Chaos? Her actions need not follow what he sees as a logical pattern. Nevertheless, the way she attacks is odd. The crystals are not typical; Slaaneshi daemons prefer more… direct means of combat.

It does not matter. There is no time to think about it.

He shouts orders and his Marines change formation, as they use the enemies' distraction. Let the daemons fight among themselves. They will show them it is an unwise choice.

Panic rises among the cultists as the daemonette turns against them. It is almost as if she wants to help them, but Fulgrim will not entertain such thoughts. Nothing that is touched by Chaos can be trusted and he knows it well, does he not? The traitors that were once under his command are the greatest testament to that truth.

Finally, the daemon catches her and as far as Fulgrim can tell gloats. Let him. The longer his attention is distracted—

"I have killed thousands of psykers for him before, to fuel the illusions to keep him as sane as I could. I would kill millions for his sake, without a thought, to earn a moment of his approval. I would obliterate everything that I saw as a threat to him, or my claim on him. And _I would do it without regret._ You knew this _before you turned me._ Why then, did you ask, if I give a damn about these daemons that I've killed? They were not _him._ They do not matter. They were _nothing._ And now,_ so are you._"

He does not have the time to analyze her words. Somehow the daemonette manages one final strike with those crystals. They shred the daemon apart, ripping out from inside his body. With his fall the cultist lose coherency and the minor daemons wink out of existence. The daemonette is no more too.

{oOo}

Fulgrim watches one of the crystals. It is odd, but it is not what he is considering. The last words the daemonette said are on his mind. They anger him—he had never wished for her love.

It is odd, but yet he finds he has pity for her. Not for the daemonette, but for the person he thinks she used to be. He does not remember ever meeting her, but he thinks he can guess what kind of a person she used to be.

He pities her, because she had chased the sun and got burned. He pities her, because she chose poorly. He pities her, because she damned herself and never had the chance to find peace.

{oOo}

AN: Collab by Djibriel and Bloody Mary.


	22. Passive Aggressive Negotiations

{oOo}

"You have brought much honor to House Heliodor." The words hang in the air between them and Beryl adjusts the cuffs on her coat. "If you say so, Lord." she says, her voice carefully neutral.

Gracefully, the servant poured the hot tea into thin porcelain cups for them before the Lord waves him away impatiently.

"But you have not been to the homeworld for half a decade." His eyes grey and keen as a hawk's search her face. "And now you return, for what purpose?"

"I have brought a young boy with me." Beryl says, stirring in the sugar, and the lemon juice. "I wish to adopt him into our House."

The Lord frowns. "Your son?" The question is pointed; he knows as well as Beryl does, that she has no formal relationship and hasn't married.

"My ward." Beryl says quietly, but firmly. "And my heir to be. I consider him a son, yes. I merely wish to formalize it."

The Lord carefully weighs the honor his prodigal daughter has brought to the House, versus the unknown character of the child in question and says, "I wish to meet the lad first."

"As you wish." Beryl says, lips curling up in sardonic amusement. "He is right outside. I will go call him over."

Hayt is nervous, though not excessively. By now, he has witnesed a lot and planetary nobility is not nearly as threatening as crazed cultists of Chaos. Still, he worries that the Lord might dislike him and prevent Mother from adopting him. It would be nice to have a second name and to know he is Mother's child formaly.

Still, Mother has told him it would go fine and she hasn't lied to him ever before. He can trust Mother.

"Hayt," Beryl says quietly, "come in. There is someone I want you to meet."

She smiles wryly, "Lord Elios, This is Hayt. My son. Hayt, this is the Lord of House Heliodor." After a moment's pause she finishes, "My father."

Don't say "hi" or "hello", Hayt reminds himself, as he bows. "My Lord?"

He doesn't pick up much from him. Just the vaguest sense of uncertainty, but now exact thoughts. He isn't trying to read the man, despite it being his first instinct. Mother said not to. Instead he keeps his eyes down, waiting to be addressed.

"Look up at me. child." Elios is many things, but a bully isn't one of them, 'Hayt' is small and Elios takes the looking down at the floor as somewhat of an indication of shyness. "Stand up straight, you don't have to be so tense.."

The boy is slim, short, well dressed. His stance is wary, almost, but not afraid. He had grey eyes, and short brown hair.

He seems calm and well mannered. Elios approves of this, but his daughter hasn't told him much about her son, guarding away the details like a dragon with her hoard. "How long have you been with my daughter?" he asks carefully, his voice mild. He doesn't want to startle the lad.

He looks young. Very young.

Hayt obediently looks up, his grey eyes meeting Elios's gaze and holding it. He isn't shy, but he does manage not to be cheeky or offensive. He is a quick learner and Beryl taught him about manners.

"A year, sir," he replies.

Hm. Not so shy after all. "Why do you want to be a part of my House?" he asks, straightforwardly. Is it for wealth or comforts?

"Because M- Lady Beryl is part of it," Hayt replies promptly and without hesitation. He's not sure if he should add that he wants to have a family, since... well, that's sentimental and private. The man isn't his grandfather yet. He might never become his grandfather.

Elios noticed the lapse, and he's fairly sure that the boy almost said 'Mother'. He's not sure how to feel about that; he's not sure at all. He seems to be a well mannered lad, but.. "What happened to your parents, child?" he asks, as gently as he can.

Hayt did not like this question and as calm as he was, it did show. He winces and looks away, before responding, "They're dead."

Well, he's fairly certain his mother is. His father is a different question, though he suspects he's dead too. That, however, is not an information he likes sharing.

"My apologies." Elios says quietly, rendered uncomfortable. "I did not mean to reopen old wounds. One last question though. If you are allowed to join my family, will you swear you will not shame or dishonor us in any way?"

That does sound reasonable, though quite dificult. Hayt considers the question, before politely asking, "Could you give me a list, sir? Lady Beryl says perception of honour varies from planet to planet."

Well, that is a well thought out answer! It's also giving Elios important pieces of information. The first is that, the boy was born off-world. The second, is that he seems to prefer things to be laid out clearly,and, Elios thinks with a moment's touch of amusement, could become a very good advocate or lawyer. "I will make sure to write you a list." he promised seriously.

"Thank you, sir," Hayt replies, starting to smile uncertainly. A list is something he could learn and apply. He is uncertain if he should add something. Nothing comes to his mind and so he remains silent.

The list that Elios gave Hayt was ... well, huge was a good word for it, one supposes. It also had gems on it like 'Please don't insult any annoying nobles' and 'Please do not forget to pay your debts'. It also had things like "Please do not get horribly drunk in public" on it. And then there were things like "Please do not commit mass murder." and "Never mention uncle Oswald. Ever."

Naturally, the first think Hayt asked after perusing the list was "Who was uncle Oswald?"

Fortunately, he asked Beryl about it, figuring that while he should know why he shouldn't mention this Oswald person, it was better to ask somebody who would not take it as ignoring a direct... perhaps not order, directive? "And what did Lady Topazine say about "our" Lazuli?"

Beryl facepalmed. She was blushing from sheer embarrasment. "Oswald was an old, bald transvestite who wore long black robes, had a lisp, and had a thing for attractive younger males with dark har and green eyes."

"I believe Lady Topazina was referring to the fact that Lazuli had eight husbands, and six divorces. Father doesn't like them." She tried not to smile. "and generaly pretends they don't exist."

Well, that sounded a lot less terible than he expected. Hayt figured leaving on the streets made him jaded and so, this Oswald sounded only midldly embarrassing and Lazuli should have just slapped Topazine and gotten over it.

"All right, I won't mention them," he said. Then he sighed. "It says I should be polite to your suitors even if I don't like them. That's not fair."

Beryl hid a smile as best as she could, though it wasn't much. "Does it say that you have to be polite to them even if it says I don't like them?"

"No-o," Hayt said, perking up. "And it doesn't say I can't check what they're thinking about."

After all, he wouldn't want Mother to marry a man who had the wrong idea. Like that she wasn't awesome. That would be not acceptable.

"Exactly. So feel free to drive them away." Beryl smiled at Hayt. "Besides, I can assure you right now, there is only one man who I'd ever accept as a suitor, or lover or anything like that. And he's not anyone my mother picked out for me. So it doesn't matter what anyone else says; they're not on my list."

"Why does your mother send them to you?" Hayt asked. "She can't know what you like."

He found that truly puzzling. After all, Beryl should like them first and foremost and yet, they all seemed to be chosen according to her mother's preferences.

Beryl shrugged. "Mother wants me married off because she wants grandchildren." Beryl seemed amused by this. "As if I don't know my own biological clock..."

{oOo}

AN: Collab by Djibriel and Bloody Mary.


	23. So You Want To Be An Uncle?

{oOo}

Ferrus looked at the woman in front of him sternly. She did look familiar, though less... undressed and less demonic, he had to admit. He had felt somewhat sorry for her back then, but this didn't mean he'd let her off easily now. Fulgrim was his brother and he did need to make sure he was going to be fine.

"I know who you are and what you did," he said. "You probably can imagine what I have to say, so we can skip that. Fulgrim made his choice and I will support him. However, you are pregnant with my brother's first child and that's what I want to talk about."

He paused and looked at Beryl, trying to gauge what impact his words made on her. She did appear to be rather stunned, but now that he thought about it she appeared to be like that before he started talking to her.

To put things in perspective, the results had come in for Beryl only recently, and the first thing she had done was to show them to Hayt in stupefaction.

...Mostly because she hadn't expected this to happen. In short, her state of mind could be summed up in the following words: What. The. Hell? And not more than a day after she'd looked into the results, she was standing in front of Ferrus Manus. The word 'disoriented' would probably be the best description for her mental state.

"Er." Beryl managed. "I wasn't expecting it?"

"I'm told it's fairly common," Ferrus said, adapting a slightly lecturing tone. "Now, you have to realize that this will not be exactly like being pregnant with a child of a normal human. I had my brothers compile a list of differences they observed. You will read it and make sure you understand them."

Oh gods, she was being given the Talk by one of Fulgrim's brothers.

This. Not. Compute.

"Okay?" she ventured warily, wondering when this had shifted into the Twilight Zone.

Also. Pregnancy. It would be different? Oh, Gaia.

"Tekhne suggested it might be a good idea to have the fetus develop outside of your body," Ferrus said. "You have to remember that most of the children my brothers had, had a fairly high birth mass."

He paused for a moment, digging out a dataslate and consulted it. "You will need some specific supplements for your diet. The bones of your child will have most likely a similar structure to that of a Space Marine."

"How exactly is the child to develop outside my body?" Beryl asked warily. And how was she to bond with the child if it was in some sort of machine? And how would her diet even come into play with... Godsblastit, so many questions; this was so confusing..

"The way me and my brothers did," Ferrus replied. "It's much easier to control the development of the child that way and it wouldn't be endangered by any state you may find yourself in."

"What age did you plan to remove the child?" Beryl asked warily, already not liking the picture this was sketching in. "And why aren't you talking to Fulgrim about this?"

"Because Thora is explaining to him that pregnancy is not a fatal disease and he should stop panicking," Ferrus replied. "She has experience with that sort of reaction I lack."

He consulted his data-slate again. "That would be the third month, according to Tekhne's estimations."

"I do not feel comfortable with the idea of removing the child at all." Birth-weight or no, how could she bond with the child properly if it was cut from her flesh?

"It will be much safer that way," Ferrus replied. "What if somebody poisons you? You're an Inquisitor, you have enemies."

He really thought most women were quite unreasonable about the whole affair. Bonding? The foetus wasn't exactly capable of bonding, anyway. Once it was born, once it was an actual child, then of course it would be, but during the early stages of development, it just needed nutrients and security. Perhaps certain stimuli, but those could be very well provided by a machine.

Beryl shrugged. "I do not feel comfortable explaining this to you, but in my first life, at least, it was considered necessary for a mother to be in constant mental contact with her child. Perhaps you would prefer to trust a machine; I cannot."

"...Your child won't be like Magnus most likely, it won't be capable of actually communicating with you until... er..." Ferrus frowned trying to remember. "I think somewhere after birth."

"That... I don't think that's likely to be true." Beryl frowned slightly. "Most mages tended to manifest powers early; and I think the child will carry at least a little of my own abilities. If that's true, I can't exactly allow the child's growth to be.. stunted? in any way."

Ferrus watched her for a moment. "We'll have to keep you under tight security."

Preferably under constant monitoring. He supposed he'd have to talk with Fulgrim about this, maybe he would be able to convince the woman to act reasonable.

{oOo}

Fulgrim technically knew how pregnancy worked. Being a Primarch meant that he picked up a lot on the topic at some point of his life. That included possible dangers carried with it, which made him not exactly the calmest future father.

The talk with Thora had helped. The fact that she could give him quite a lot of examples of difficult pregnancies that did not end in death of the mother and child, despite poor medical care was rather reassuring. Even if Fenrisians had almost super-human constitutions and he was quite certain he remembered one Chapter serf of the wolves trading what could only be described as horror stories with a Guardswoman from Catachan.

He really shouldn't have thought about it. Really. Birth and pregnancy were perfectly natural processes and most women did not go into labour on a battlefield while trying to stab a greater demon of Khorne with a knife.

"Brother? Your woman is unreasonable and wants to carry the child to full term." Ferrus never had much luck with subtlety.

Fulgrim felt his hard-won peace of mind evaporate in an instant. "Why?" he asked. "There are all sorts of accidents that could happen to her! She won't be able to fight properly in the later stages!"

"Apparently she thinks her... abilities... are inheritable, and would prefer to carry the child naturally because the women of her people in the Silver Millenium believed they needed to be in constant contact with the children to pass on the abilities properly." Ferrus frowned. Foolishness, he thought. And yet she was being so stubborn about it..

"...I don't get it," Fulgrim said mournfully. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll have to keep her in some vault under tight security, then."

That ought to work, right?

"Indeed, but perhaps you should explain these things to her. She seems profoundly uncomfortable around me." Ferrus pointed out. Surely his brother could make his woman see reason?

"You glare a lot," Fulgrim said fondly. "And you're naturally intimidating, just like I'm naturally the most wonderful sight you've ever seen."

"Well." Ferrus said stubbornly, giving him an expressive look. "You're my brother." He didn't know how else to explain it. He gave Fulgrim a one-armed hug. "Still. She's your woman, I should think she should at least start getting to know the rest of the family."

"Perhaps once the child is born," Fulgrim said, resting his forehead against Ferrus' shoulder. "She's going to get some sort of talk from nearly everyone-and I don't think one coming from Angron or Russ is something she needs right now."

"Huh. She's really skittish." Ferrus said bluntly.

"Yes, she is," Fulgrim said. "More than me."

Well, more than him now, but still. He was actually the only Primarch who could be described as skittish, if only at times.

Ferrus frowned. "You are not skittish." he said loyally. "and anyway, she's..." He didn't know how to explain it but. "It's like she expects me to attack her or something." he frowned.

"That's because she does," Fulgrim said. "Could you please tell me everything will be all right? It will be, won't it?"

"I think it will be fine." Ferrus said warily. "but we'll need to keep her under constant guard. I imagine you'd prefer to be there with her too?"

"I would, but I can't be there all the time." Fulgrim sighed.

Ferrus contemplated this. Patted his brother. "I would try to cover for you, you know." he said awkwardly.

"I think we're too old for that," Fulgrim chuckled.

"I'm never going to be too old for that." Ferrus told him, straight-faced. "But I want you to name one of your kids after me."

"I was planning on doing that anyway," Fulgrim said. "...I hope I won't get too many people asking for that. The names could get too long that way."

"That's true." Ferrus contemplated this. "Or you could have more kids."

"And go through that again?" Fulgrim moaned. "Did I offend you somehow recently?"

Ferrus grinned. And then he patted his brother. "I'm sure you'll find out if you did so." he said mock-gently. "Just joking."

Fulgrim laughed softly. Funny. Ferrus hadn't said anything particularly reassuring and yet Fulgrim felt much better after talking with him.

"Is it unfair of me to hope that the new child takes after you?" Ferrus wondered aloud.

"Not at all," Fulgrim laughed. "I am the better looking one."

Well, he looked better than everybody else, save for perhaps Sanguinius, so the comparison was probably somewhat unfair...

"Hopefully not right down to the fashion sense." Ferrus grinned. (He was doomed to be disappointed on that count...)

"I have perfect fashion sense," Fulgrim sniffed haughtily and adjusted his hair. "You're simply jealous you'll never look as stunning as me."

"Someday, I hope you and your woman have a daughter." Ferrus said, frowning in a most.. stuffy? manner. "I hope she will be just like you. Then I can have the pleasure of watching you trying to beat off suitors with a stick."

Fulgrim only started laughing harder and embraced Ferrus. "I'll ask you to glare at them."

Ferrus hugged him back. "And spoil my fun? So very mean of you, brother."

"You'll enjoy glaring even more," Fulgrim replied. "You frown even when you smile, sometimes, you know?"

Ferrus was quite taken aback by this statement. It couldn't be, right? He'd have noticed this. "No, I didn't." Ferrus said, interested in spite of himself. "Is that one of the reasons no one ever ...Er." He seemed at a loss for words for a moment.

"Yes, you do," Fulgrim said. "Not all the time, but when you're being emotional, you do."

He shook his head. "Nobody ever "er" because nobody is good enough for you. You out-awesome them too much."

"You're just biased." Ferrus muttered sulkily. "I forgive you for it." He hugged him again. Silly brother.

"I'm perfectly objective about it," Fulgrim replied, patting Ferrus' back. "You shouldn't be so modest."

"Hmph." His brother was so biased. "Maybe I can try to frown less." Ferrus said. "But it's not… well... doesn't feel normal for me."

"Don't be silly," Fulgrim said. "It's going to be... odd, if you frown less. Remember what happened when Guilliman tried to stop looking serious all the time?"

Ferrus smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, I do believe I'll try to frown less. It should be... amusing... to watch."

"Just don't tell anyone I put you up to this," Fulgrim laughed.

"Alright." Ferrus grinned fondly at his brother. "You know, I'm glad you're much calmer now." Than you were before. I was so worried about you. he didn't say.

"I'm glad I am too," Fulgrim said softly. "Now come, I should probably make sure everybody can see I am not panicking."

"Alright." Ferrus agreed, and followed his brother out. "Are you happy with the idea of having children? And, er, your woman?"

"I do feel... a bit uncertain about that," Fulgrim said. "I... don't know if I'm going to be a good parent. I might expect too much or too little and..."

He shrugged helplessly. "And I'm not sure if... if my child will get along with Kalleis. I know she wishes I had been..."

He shook his head. "I don't know."

"Well then, perhaps you should talk to Kalleis first?" Ferrus suggested. "Introduce her to your... Beryl." Ferrus said awkwardly trying out the name of his sort of sister in law. "And the tell her about the fact you're going to have children of your own. And I understand your... Beryl.. already has an adopted son? She should get to know him too?"

"That's a good idea," Fulgrim shook his head. "What would I do without you?"

"Preen." Ferrus said bluntly. "and collect more art than you could store."

"And you'd insult everyone without me," Fulgrim replied without missing a beat.

"True." Ferrus admitted. "My standards are probably too high."

"Hm... You shouldn't ask me about this," Fulgrim said. "They always sounded quite reasonable to me."

Which spoke volumes about the levels of perfectionism both of them tended to display.

"You know, I never did ask you why you decided to stay with that woman." Ferrus admitted, clearly puzzled.

"The obvious answer aside," Fulgrim said, "she's hard-working and loyal."

Ferrus just shook his head. "A bit obsessive though?"

"Yes," Fulgrim nodded. "I wish I could get her to fixate less on me. It's... over-whelming at times."

Ferrus frowned. "Is she bothering you?"

"No," Fulgrim said. "At least not in the sense you mean it. It's just... I'm worried about that. That she won't be able to function without me. Things like that."

Ferrus blinked. "You're worried about her." He said, digesting this thought carefully. "Because you think she'll breakdown if you go? Or if anything happens to you?"

Fulgrim nodded. "I'm fairly certain of that, actually."

Ferrus twitched slightly. "I... have no idea how you can fix that. Or help her."

"I need to get her to stop fixating on me," Fulgrim said. "That would require her having more social ties, but... well, not is really not the best time for that."

"No it isn't." Ferrus said warily. "Though perhaps you might want to get her to try and make friends with the Senshi later on. In any case. For now, security plans, right?"

"We need to keep her in a vault," Fulgrim said firmly. "With tight security. Maybe Father would lend us some Sisters of Silence?"

"Perhaps he would." Ferrus grinned. "That is, if you can talk her into staying there

"She's slightly obsessive, not stupid," Fulgrim replied. "I'm sure she'll understand the need for security."

Ferrus coughed. "Er." The single syllable was rather.. eloquent of how little he trusted Beryl's judgement.

"I'm sure I can convince her," Fulgrim said

"Good luck with that." Ferrus said, his entire demeanor practically saying 'dubious' all over it.

{oOo}

AN: And another collab between Mary and Djibriel~


	24. Welcome to the World, Little Bird

{oOo}

The birth had been difficult. The labor had been painful. But at last, she was rewarded.

As Beryl looked down at the red-faced, wailing bundle of joy in her arms, she could not stop herself from _grinning like a maniac_.

Like all newborns, the baby in Beryl's arms was reddish-skinned, and it wasn't just the blood from her birth. Her skin was wrinkly, she wailed like an air raid siren, she had puffy eyes, thin legs and arms, and she didn't smell very nice. Also, she hurt like a bitch, coming out.

To Beryl, who was deliriously happy to be seeing her anyway, who was now besottedly counting her tiny little fingers and toes, she was still, _utterly adorable._

Beryl cooed to her little one, cuddling her close. The infant girl, when her wails had finally devolved to whimpers, had eyes that were wide and dark, like her father's, inky black in colour. She'd been separated from the last of the umbilical cord and given a good bath in warm water, and wrapped up in a soft, purple towel.

Finally, she snuggled close to the warmth of her mother and drifted off to sleep.

By the time Fulgrim got back, the little girl was looking much more presentable, clean, dry, warm, with a new nappy wrapped around her nether regions and drinking from her mother's breast, and Beryl was humming tunelessly as she was looking up a list of mineral names on her hand-held personal computer. She'd managed to send a message to Hayt, telling him the child was born and it was a girl, and asking him for more possible baby names, and asking him to send word to Kalleis. And Ferrus. Beryl still wasn't sure how Ferrus or his other siblings felt about her and the Senshi and Primarchs still scared her somewhat.

"What," Beryl asked Fulgrim, "Do you think about Opal, as a name? Or did you have anything in mind?"

"It's a nice name," Fulgrim said, sitting down next to Beryl. "But I promised to name my firstborn after Ferrus. I think we should at least go for metals."

"Alright." Beryl agreed quickly, reaching out to touch his hand. There was something comfortable in Fulgrim's presence. He made her feel safe and warm and wanted. Even when she was frightened, or in pain, his presence made those things less frightening, though there hadn't been much that could be done about the labor.

(She wouldn't have said so, or even contemplated it too closely, but it was likely that Fulgrim was the universe's biggest security blanket. Well, him or the Ginzuishou... except for Beryl, the Ginzuishou was not comforting, so Fulgrim was much preferred.)

Ferrus' namesake, hm? "Wouldn't a female form of his name be Ferria? Other metals.. Argent, Aurium... Cyprium...?" she puzzled out.

"How about Aura then?" Fulgrim asked. "Ferria sounds a bit... off."

"Alright." Beryl agreed, smiling at him. "I'll just tell Hayt her name's already been chosen, then." That would probably surprise Hayt, since she'd only asked him for names a half-hour earlier. Poor Ferrus. It would seem that he'd have to wait until next time to have a namesake. On the bright side, he did, once, say he wished Fulgrim to have a little girl who would take after him. I guess two out of three wouldn't be bad?

"Who else did you ask for help with names?" Fulgrim laughed, running his finger against her cheek.

"Well, I did send a message to Ferrus, because I thought you'd want him to help?" Beryl said hesitantly.

Why did Fulgrim's touch make Beryl feel all warm and cuddly inside? She didn't know how, but she found herself blushing anyway, as Fulgrim caressed her cheek. Her chest felt warm and overflowing with nameless joy and she couldn't help smiling up at him.

Ferrus arrived not long after, having hurried to get there before the name was chosen. He arrived to find Beryl, blushing and snuggling up to Fulgrim, holding the little baby close. It was, as he'd found out from the message, a girl. It was also bald, reddish-skinned, and the only thing he could see a resemblance to Fulgrim in, was the eyes.

Ferrus was disappointed. He frowned, looked down at the infant girl as if to try to find more points of resemblance, then turned to Fulgrim. "She doesn't look very much like you." he said, with an air of disappointment and...was that accusation directed at Beryl?

If he hadn't been her beloved's favourite brother, and his best friend in the entire galaxy, Beryl would have tried to hit him with the serving tray, or the cup of jello she'd been provided by considerate nurses. As it was, she tried not to frown at the taller Primarch and said, neutrally, "Give her time."

Fulgrim sighed. "Ferrus, you're making a scene over something you ought to know. Behave please. And keep your voice down."

Ferrus frowned slightly. (But then, Beryl was fairly sure that was his default expression!) And then, said, "Sorry." and took a closer look at the child. Hm. Maybe she wasn't completely irredeemable yet. "She has your eyes." Ferrus' tone said this was something of which he greatly approved.

"I have my eyes," Fulgrim said with a grin. "Hers happen to look a lot like mine."

Ferrus grinned at him. "Picky." He wondered if it would be inappropriate for hair ruffling? Ah, what did it matter if it was appropriate or not? He ruffled Fulgrim's hair. There, that was better. "One out of three." he said, remembering the conversation he'd had, when Beryl had found out she'd gotten pregnant.

Meanwhile Beryl had finally sent the message to Hayt, saying Fulgrim had chosen a name.

"What are you naming her?" Ferrus asked.

"Aura," Fulgrim replied, adjusting his hair with an annoyed expression. "There's no way to make your macho name feminine."

Ferrus did not sulk. Ferrus did not pout. Fulgrim was right after all, and he had a very manly name. Nevertheless his (default!) expression returned. "Fine." He said, inspecting the child. "I suppose it will do." She would, after all, have a lot of time to grow into it.

"Ferrus? Get yourself your own child," Fulgrim said, starting to laugh. His brother was being a bit... silly, he supposed.

Ferrus looked utterly scandalized. It did not suit him.

It was, however, very amusing to Beryl, who started laughing. This only made Ferrus look disturbed again, which made it a vicious cycle that lasted for a few minutes. "Hmph."

{oOo}


	25. Welcome to the World, Little Bird II

{oOo}

"It's a nice name," Fulgrim said, sitting down next to Beryl. "But I promised to name my firstborn after Ferrus. I think we should at least go for metals."

"Alright." Beryl agreed quickly, reaching out to touch his hand. There was something comfortable in Fulgrim's presence. He made her feel safe and warm and wanted. Even when she was frightened, or in pain, his presence made those things less frightening, though there hadn't been much that could be done about the labor.

(She wouldn't have said so, or even contemplated it too closely, but it was likely that Fulgrim was the universe's biggest security blanket. Well, him or the Ginzoushou...except for Beryl, the ginzoushou was not comforting, so Fulgrim was much preferred.)

Ferrus' namesake, hm? "Wouldn't a female form of his name be Ferria? Other metals.. Argent, Aurium... Cyprium...?" she puzzled out.

"How about Aura then?" Fulgrim asked. "Ferria sounds a bit... off."

"Alright." Beryl agreed, smiling at him, "I'll just tell Hayt her name's already been chosen, then." That would probably surprise Hayt; since she'd only asked him for names a half-hour earlier. Poor Ferrus. It would seem that he'd have to wait until next time to have a namesake. On the bright side, he did, once, say he wished Fulgrim to have a little girl who would take after him. I guess two out of three wouldn't be bad?

"Who else did you ask for help with names?" Fulgrim laughed, running his finger against her cheek.

"Well, I did send a message to Ferrus, because I thought you'd want him to help?" Beryl said hesitantly.

Why did Fulgrim's touch make Beryl feel all warm and cuddly inside? She didn't know how, but she found herself blushing anyway, as Fulgrim caressed her cheek. Her chest felt warm and overflowing with nameless joy and she couldn't help smiling up at him.

Ferrus arrived not long after, having hurried to get there before the name was chosen. He arrived to find Beryl, blushing and snuggling up to Fulgrim, holding the little baby close. It was, as he'd found out from the message, a girl. It was also bald, reddish-skinned, and the only thing he could see a resemblance to Fulgrim in, was the eyes.

Ferrus was disappoint. He frowned, looked down at the infant girl as if to try to find more points of resemblance, then turned to Fulgrim. "She doesn't look very much like you." he said, with an air of disappointment and.. was that accusation directed at Beryl?

If he hadn't been her beloved's favorite brother, and his best friend in the entire galaxy, Beryl would have tried to hit him with the serving tray, or the cup of jello she'd been provided by considerate nurses. As it was, she tried not to frown at the taller Primarch and said, neutrally, "Give her time."

Fulgrim sighed. "Ferrus, you're making a scene over something you ought to know. Behave please. And keep your voice down."

Ferrus frowned slightly. (But then, Beryl was fairly sure that was his default expression!) And then, said, "Sorry." and took a closer look at the child. Hm. Maybe she wasn't completely irredeemable yet. "She has your eyes." Ferrus' tone said this was something of which he greatly approved.

"I have my eyes," Fulgrim said with a grin. "Hers happen to look a lot like mine."

Ferrus grinned at him. "Picky." He wondered if it would be inappropriate for hair ruffling? Ah, what did it matter if it was appropriate or not? He ruffled Fulgrim's hair. There, that was better. "One out of three." he said, remembering the conversation he'd had, when Beryl had found out she'd gotten pregnant.

Meanwhile Beryl had finally sent the message to Hayt, saying Fulgrim had chosen a name.

"What are you naming her?" Ferrus asked.

"Aura," Fulgrim replied, adjusting his hair with an annoyed expression. "There's no way to make your macho name feminine."

Ferrus did not sulk. Ferrus did not pout. Fulgrim was right after all, and he had a very manly name. Nevertheless his (default!) expression returned. "Fine." He said, inspecting the child. "I suppose it will do." She would, after all, have a lot of time to grow into it.

"Ferrus? Get yourself your own child," Fulgrim said, starting to laugh. His brother was beeing a bit... silly, he supposed.

Ferrus looked utterly scandalized. It did not suit him.

It was, however, very amusing to Beryl, who started laughing. This only made Ferrus look disturbed again, which made it a vicious cycle that lasted for a few minutes.

"Hmph."

{oOo}


	26. Playtime With Uncle Ferrus

{oOo}

Ferrus was glad that Fulgrim came to visit with his daughter (and that his wife was busy being Inquisitorial again, for the matter). There was even some sort of artistic event in his name to which he'd sent him of. That had, however, left him with little Aura.

"What do you want to do, short stuff?" he asked the little girl, once her father was out of sight.

Aura was holding a large, plush toy bear in her arms. It was, actually larger than her. She was, however, easily able to lift it. She had buried her face in its soft, dark purple fur for a moment, then she pulled her face away from Mr. Flufferkins, and, putting a great deal of thought in the decision, finally said, "I want to paint. Please?" while looking up hopefully at uncle Ferrus.

Ferrus nodded solemnly, before producing a set of paints and some paper that Fulgrim had left for the little girl. He patted Aura's head before getting some paintbrushes and a cup of water.

"Here you go."

Aura lit up, and carefully put Mr. Flufferkins away on a nice safe stool. Then she picked up the paints and opened them, sitting down. Soon, after the paper had been laid out, she was painting... somewhat a bit TOO enthusiastically.

Fulgrim had, hopefully, made her dress easily washable. Or at least left a nice change of clothes in a small, purple bag.

Ferrus frowned, before carefully taking the girl's tiny hand in his and saying, "How about we paint together?"

He liked the table. True, the metal surface should be salvagable, but... well, it was best not to create mess in the first place.

Blink, blink.

Aura smiled, and it was wide and bright and adorable. "Okay!" she said, happily. She liked painting with other people! She moved to make room for Ferrus. Except well, she was sort of not sure how far she should move to make room?

Ferrus solved the problem by picking the little girl up and placing her on his lap.

"Now, what are we going to paint?"

The little girl grinned and nestled into his lap. Thankfully, he wasn't wearing the shiny-black.. armor things he normally wore and it wasn't cold.

No, today, he was in soft, really dark grey cloth, and she said immediately, "Flowers!" Perhaps... "And maybe later, I can paint my family?"

Did she have enough purple paint?

Flowers. Why flowers? He couldn't paint flowers... Nevertheless, Ferrus decided to try. Carefully, he guided Aura's hand guiding her to draw a circle and then the petals. It looked passable he thought.

She seemed to like it, if the way she lit up was any indication. Unlike Ferrus, her own drawings of flowers were wild, the strokes unsteady. She didn't really know how to paint, but she was happy doing it anyway, and with Ferrus to guide her hand, the flowers looked more like flowers and less like blotches.

"Thank you!" she said, trying to follow his example, this time with red paint on her brush.

"You're welcome," Ferrus said. "Remember, you don't need to hurry. The paper won't run away."

Oooh. That was a funny picture! But soon she was out of paper, and the edges of the picture were sort of soggy. "Do we have any more?"

"Yes," Ferrus replied, taking out another piece of paper. "Here you go."

Some time later, little Aura's brush paused. She'd been happily painting for quite some time now, and in spite of Ferrus' painting help, had still left a mess on her dress and on his grey clothing.

However, as her tummy's rumbling indicated, she was now hungry.

She looked imploringly at uncle Ferrus. "Can I have a snack?" she asked, hopefully.

"Of course," Ferrus said. "But first we'll have to wash our hands, won't we?"

And get into some clean clothes, he thought. How could one little thing cause such a mess?

And what a colourful mess it was! Red, and blue and green, purple and yellow… splatters and smears and streaks..

Poor Ferrus' clothing looked like it had tasted the rainbow.

"Okay." Aura agreed, wondering if there would be cake, as uncle Ferrus picked her up and took her to the large sink for hand washing time.

Then came clothes changing time, before finally Aura was given several nice red apples. Uncle Ferrus was a firm beliver in "no candy between meals".

Oh, no cake? Aura was disappointed.

However the apples were crisp and sweet and she soon forgot the disappointment, because they were tasty, and they were filling her belly quite well. She did, however, leave a mess on her previously clean purple shirt, and she now had sticky hands from the juice.

Ferrus sighed and washed her hands again, then helped her clean her face, before finally putting her into a clean dress. Hm... What could he do to keep her clean? He couldn't go forging with her-she was too small and could get burnt.

Didn't Fulgrim leave a ball?

"Would you like to play with your ball, Aura?"

"Okay." Aura agreed. She liked her ball. It was bouncy, and not-hard. "Are you going to play with me, uncle Ferrus?"

"You'll have to teach me," Ferrus said solemnly, handing her the ball.

Apparently, little Aura's idea of playing with balls was to bounce it repeatedly, and catch it, toss it to another person and catching it again. Perhaps part of the allure was that the ball was colourfully patterned. It had been a gift from Uncle Angron, and had come with an Angron plushie.

Ferrus tossed the ball back dutifully. The little thing was cute—he'd give her that and she did look a lot like Fulgrim nowadays (the last time he'd seen her she was red and looked a bit like a hairless monkey...). And it seemed like playing with a ball kept her from getting dirty, too.

It was a pity that little girls didn't have a very steady or focused mind. Far too soon by Ferrus' point of view, she got tired of playing ball and asked if there were any other games they could play?

Oh dear. Where was Fulgrim when you needed him?

Which ended up with Ferrus drawing a gameboard on the spot and attempting to teach Aura "snakes and ladders". He hoped it was easy enough for her. He wasn't really sure what was too difficult for a child her age.

Well, she certainly seemed to like the new game, if her reaction was good to go by.

Fortunately for Ferrus' sanity, Fulgrim arrived some time after their fourth or fifth game, to pick his daughter up.

{oOo}

AN: And another collab between Djibriel and Bloody Mary.


	27. Adaptation

{oOo}

The Imperial Army was very different from what Endymion had expected, and had experience with. Nevertheless, he'd still entered it forthrightly, with an intent to earning his way upwards, and eventually, meeting the Princess once again on a more equal basis.

The armor was light and far less decorative, in an unattractive set of fatigues. He didn't mind. He wasn't here to look good. He was here to prove he was capable, and worthy of continuing the amenable relationship... almost friendship.. that they'd started on his home planet.

Had that been him misreading her actions later, after the ball? Or was he a hopeful fool?

Their weapons were different and he took the time to get to know how each of them worked, taking them apart and putting them back together methodically. Field-stripping them, so as to say. Just to make sure he would know how to repair them in any circumstances, including should he be stranded on hostile territory and thus require a working field arm to be re-assembled from any available materials on hand... including a dead fellow trenchman's gun.

He quietly did what was expected of him with the skill and quiet competence that spoke well of what had gotten him to the position of 'Captain of the Guard' on his homeworld, and he didn't waste his alloted amount of downtime, researching more on the Imperial family and customs of the Imperium.

His previous employer had not been happy to see him go, offering him higher wages, and more privileges, including improved quarters and women, which Endymion had gently declined, as he had paid off all his debts and his family's debts* as well, redeeming their honor and earning his freedom to now seek new opportunities.

The noble hadn't understood or wanted to understand why the man would leave his lucrative post as one of his trusted bodyguards, to take up a position in the Imperial Guard, and then attempt to work his way upwards from scratch. It had made no sense.

In the end, he'd released Endymion with bad grace and a visible mood of the kind Endymion was very used to.

And that had led to the current situation. Namely a skirmish with one of the worlds that was slated to be brought into the Imperium. Its leaders had demanded for a marriage alliance; having heard that the Imperium's leaders had nine daughters, they had asked for the eldest daughter, for the highest ranking of their number, assuming this would be accepted by the Emperor. After all, that was what daughters were used for, were they not? And this Emperor had twenty sons, had secured his succession. There was no harm in asking for the Princess.

They thought wrong.

And that, was why Endymion was currently with what could be called a platoon, systematically fighting their way towards one of the many hidden bunkers that the nobles in question might have been hiding in.

They'd fought their way through traps, through explosives, through determined soldiers who were just on the wrong side at the wrong time, and Endymion had seen his share of men falling. It was slow going; the sheer number of bunkers to search meant that their casualties kept rising, from things that could have been prevented if each smaller squad had a medic assigned to it, with adequate supplies.

Endymion was no doctor, but he did have some knowledge of how to heal, and he did his best, trying up touniquets with the rest of them, bandaging wounds, or having to sear some wounds shut with a lasgun-charge when they didn't have the time to go back to a medic before the man he was trying to help bled out.

It was gritty, disgusting work, and wasn't made any better by the planet's ill- allocated water sources, its polluted sewers, and the fact each bunker had both droids with weapons and explosive boobytraps.

It was desperation that had awakened Endymion's abilities. The man in front of him, a recently made friend of his, had a thousand shards of shrapnel in his chest, and he couldn't possibly remove them all by normal, human sight alone. He'd always had flashes of insight when he touched an object... he'd used it to solve over a thousand cases of political saboteurs. Today, his ability to see the 'past' and 'future' of objects in front of him swum into stunning relief once again, and almost in a trance, he felt his hands move, removing piece after piece automatically, accurately, without damaging him far more than he felt the man's body could recover from.

Bandaging this man up afterwards wouldn't help. Searing the wounds with a lasgun charge wouldn't do any good and might kill him.

The sensation of something flowing out of him, and into the man, a strange golden glow on Endymion's blood covered hands now closing his wounds with surprising speed.

Well now. It looked like they'd both live to share the meals at the mess hall another day.

...That is, if Endymion could ghost his way through the console on the bunker's wall and hack through its programming... or use his 'sight' to input the right codes.

The fact that this planet had a completely different set of letters and glyphs wouldn't balk him; his sight didn't require understanding of the glyphs, only an accurate sight of which were pressed in what order.

...Which the nobles' residue was fortunate enough to provide him.

Some time later, as he looted the bunker for healing supplies, to go tend to his men, he was grateful it was so well stocked. There were many more boltholes to search and he'd need every last bit of the food and items stored in here, before this campaign ended.

{oOo}


	28. Ambition

{oOo}

Little Ferric sat by his father's leg, leaning against him, playing with his toys. Today, they were Space Marines, another day, they might be cars or other vehicles; on yet another, it might be animals, a tool set or a chemistry set. Little Ferric was a very intelligent boy, just like his father had been.

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" his auntie Nefer asked him, as she patted his hair. Beside her, Konrad was sitting, taste-testing the cookies he was served. In her lap, tiny Aura (who held forth that she was the BIG sister and Ferric was the baby even if he was taller...) played with her own toy, a dataslate and its stylus.

Ferric gave this the necessary amount of thought, brows furrowed before he made his decision. "I dunno. Not a Space Marine, though. Maybe an Inquisitor like Mama."

"Why not a space marine?" Nefer asked, puzzled. With the way he'd grown up surrounded by space marines he admired, she'd have thought...

Ferric looked at her as if it was obvious and he was surprised she didn't see his reasoning.

"Because almost all of my older brothers are space marines!"

{oOo}


End file.
